Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
There wasn’t a single corner in all of Rhovar from which one could not see the grand cathedral that was La Bastille Lumière.
It loomed over the kingdom like the Divine Eye, towering so high it was unclear whether the spires were trying to kiss the heavens or pierce through them.
The cathedral sat at the kingdom’s peak, its stones streaked with veins of gold that caught the earliest hints of sunrise.
Most mornings, it looked as though the cathedral had been set aflame.
Towers with needle-point spires flanked the entrance, an angel engraved into either side.
They appeared as if leaning out of the stone, their outstretched hands beckoning to weary souls.
A rose window dominated the facade, its stained glass glimmering.
Marble statues stood guard over the archways, each one carved with such precision that Aurelie often imagined the angels might one day stir from their plinths and take flight.
The doors were massive slabs of dark wood banded with iron.
One door stood ajar, inviting the people of Rhovar inside; the other remained sealed, the iron curling in ornate whorls.
Above all, the central dome rose from the cathedral’s heart like a great stone crown.
As a child, Aurelie had dreamed of climbing to its peak, certain that from there she could see the entire kingdom laid bare below her.
Perhaps, with the angel at her side, she would finally have the chance.
She felt naked as she stood upon the threshold of the cathedral, forbidden to wear her sword for the ceremony.
The scarlet cape draped over her shoulders was no armor, its velvet soft beneath her restless fingers.
It trailed behind her, the hem embroidered in threads of gold that shimmered like embers.
Beneath, a fitted surcoat of pure white hugged her form, its fabric draped over a demon-scale breastplate that gleamed like ivory.
Atop her brow sat the circlet, polished to a mirrorlike shine with gilded wings that swept upward from her temples.
Its weight was foreign, a feather compared to the familiarity of her helm.
Over her arms, she wore gold bracers inlaid with a featherlike design, and her hands were gloved in fine, pale leather.
On her neck, her mother’s pendant shone, freshly polished.
Nothing she wore was meant for battle, and the vulnerability made her skin prickle. She was aware of every breath, every beat of her heart beneath the breastplate.
As Aurelie stepped past the towering doors, a coolness descended over her.
The air inside the cathedral carried the sweetness of incense and the briny tang of weathered stone.
Nobles gathered beneath vaulted ceilings, clad in finery that rustled like dry leaves when they shifted.
As she entered, their murmurs softened, heads swiveling toward her.
“Stand proud, Aurelie.” Azriel’s voice hummed through her mind, the words carrying a warmth that spread through her body like sunlight breaking through a storm. “All eyes are on you.”
That was precisely what worried her. Once, she would have drunk in those stares, proud of what she’d accomplished. Now she wondered whether everyone could read the deceit in her eyes.
“You look radiant,” the queen said, her voice as sweet as honey. She was draped in a flowing gown of ivory brocade, the fabric shimmering like frost on morning grass. Behind her, the royal family had gathered in the nave.
Aurelie sought Ilaria through the crowd, but the princess avoided her stare. Ilaria’s face was pale and drawn, shadows beneath her swollen eyes.
Her father and Azriel stood behind the king, the angel with his wings spread and all eyes on watch. Varen, however, stared only at her, and Aurelie felt guilt creeping back in from the pride that shone in his eyes.
The majority of the knights were posted outside the cathedral, though Aurelie noticed her company had been allowed in. They stood in the pews, and Aurelie’s heart stuttered when she caught sight of Nicolas. He offered a gentle smile, but she turned quickly away.
It was a relief when the archbishop approached.
He was a rail-thin man with a face creased like parchment, sunspots marking his weathered skin.
Long crimson robes trailed behind him as he moved slowly toward the altar.
Despite his age, there was nothing fragile about him; his posture was straight, his movements certain, and when he spoke, his voice resonated with a deep, unwavering authority that filled the vast space.
“Today, we honor the one chosen and blessed by the Divine, tasked with keeping Rhovar safe forevermore. Let us begin this holy rite.” The congregation grew silent, each member bowing their head in reverence as the Chantelunes and the Noriclats were each handed a chalice filled with plum wine that glinted in the candlelight, representing the blood of the angels who protected them.
Aurelie took hers, the metal cool in her hands, and dipped one thumb inside, making the Divine symbol—the shape of an eye—in two curved strokes across her forehead.
Then she lifted the wine to her lips and drank deeply.
The ritual was meant to show fealty to the Divine. They marked their brows, then drank the symbolic blood, welcoming the Divine into their bodies with each bitter swallow. But in truth, Aurelie wasn’t thinking of vows or holiness. She was just grateful to have a drink to steady her nerves.
She handed the chalice back to the priest and moved to the altar as the others drank, sinking to her knees upon a crimson pillow.
The archbishop’s voice carried on, speaking of her divine purpose, of the honor bestowed upon her to become Rhovar’s shield, but Aurelie could hardly listen.
Hopefully, if she kept her eyes shut and her head bowed, everyone would think her swept away by her own devotion.
Could they see the sweat beading upon her upper lip? Did they know how deeply she felt the urge to run and find a privy? She swallowed, wishing she could wipe the sweat away without drawing attention. Surely the angel wouldn’t show up for a heathen.
Just as she had the thought, however, a sudden warmth flooded her body and she jerked her head upright.
Aurelie hadn’t known what to expect with the angel’s arrival.
In one of her fantasies, the sky had split open as one of the Divine hurtled from the clouds.
In another, the angel came in an encroaching storm, lightning at their heels with thunder that shook all of Rhovar.
But reality was stranger than fiction, for the angel was before her in a flash of light, their form appearing from the nothingness.
There were gasps from the congregation, some of the spectators wincing as they shielded their eyes.
Hers stung, watering until the figure before her blurred into a glowing silhouette and the light receded as suddenly as it had appeared.
Only then did Aurelie see that it was a man who stood before her.
He was tall and lithe, with wings that stretched behind him like falling snow, their feathers a pristine white.
He had wavy hair of the same color, framing golden-toned skin smooth and flawless in a way that could only belong to the ethereal.
The man’s silver eyes curved at the corners like the most delicate teardrop, and though he was lean in stature, Aurelie could feel the power that pulsed through his body, stronger than anything she’d ever felt.
It was, however, none of these things that caused Aurelie’s heart to still as she stared upon a face that offered no expression in return.
It was the fact that the angel looked so young.
She had no doubt that he was far older than his appearance, and yet he didn’t look a day older than thirty.
His face was tender and sculpted, like the angels who’d inspired so much art over the years.
Beautiful.
This angel was so beautiful that she forgot how to breathe.
He knelt before Aurelie, forearm resting upon his knee as his stare held hers.
“I, Yuriel, offer you a vow of divinity,” he said, his voice like a summer storm.
“For as long as I breathe, my Glory shall be yours to wield. I vow to protect you and this kingdom. I will be your light in darkness, and your blade against the shadow. So long as you vow to use my strength for good, then let our lives be forever bound.”
Panic rose in Aurelie’s throat. Light help her, this man wasted no time at all. His words blurred together, a hum in her ears as her thoughts unraveled.
Azriel had assured her that bonds with angels were not romantic. They were beings of duty, their lives guided by purpose rather than passion. And yet Aurelie didn’t know how she was meant to share every waking feeling for the rest of her life with someone so breathtaking.
It wasn’t only the tilt of his mouth or the impossible, sculpted symmetry of his features, but the way the room seemed to warp around his silence. He moved as if he belonged to a finer world, radiating a serenity so complete that it made her feel as though she were seeing beauty for the first time.
He was, without a doubt, the most wondrous being she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Yuriel.” She repeated the name that burned her tongue. “I don’t think I—”
“Bow to him.” It was Azriel who spoke, his voice hitting her like a lightning strike. “Yuriel is a good man. I know him well.”
Aurelie didn’t doubt that he was. She, however, was a liar and a cheat, and the longer she looked upon Yuriel, the more that truth burned within her.
But the angel had already drawn a crystal blade and was gliding the serrated edge down his palm before she could stop him.
Aurelie watched, spellbound, as gilded blood spilled from his fist, cascading like molten sunlight.
Without hesitation, Yuriel extended the blade to her, hilt first.